


Always Cold

by Theycallmecrazy23



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Asexual Character, Cuddling, Fluff, Love Confessions, M/M, Sleepy Cuddles, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, gay&touchstarved, let_them_rest, ofcourseitsthesafehouse, the safehouse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-16
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-14 14:14:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28796724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theycallmecrazy23/pseuds/Theycallmecrazy23
Summary: Jon clings to Martin’s back, fists pulling desperately at the back of his shirt, holding him there, praying, praying.  Praying to who, or what, he doesn’t know.  But the prayer comes to him all the same.  Don’t let him leave me again.  Please, please.  Over and over again, that phrase paces tracks in his head.  He pulls the warmth, the softness tighter and he feels it pull back-- he feels Martin pull him closer, so close and god, the heat radiating off of this man.  It feels like sunlight through a window on a bright summer day.  Warmer even.  Not hot enough to burn-- never that.  It feels good, feels right, feels like he belongs here. He never wants to let go.Without even thinking, without even needing to--Jon says,“I love you.”
Relationships: Jon Sims & Martin Blackwood, Jonathan Sims & Martin Blackwood, Jonathan Sims x Martin Blackwood, Jonathan Sims/Martin Blackwood, Jonmartin - Relationship, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist/Reader
Comments: 15
Kudos: 133





	Always Cold

**Author's Note:**

> I am bi and I am touch starved. Do not @ me.

Jon’s feet are always cold. He knows this. Can feel the chill of his toes even encased in socks. A mild inconvenience at the most. Yet they're always the last thing he feels before he falls asleep in his cot at the Archives, right before walking into someone else’s dreams. 

So when he pushes himself under the quilt of the safehouse bed and he feels the warmth radiating out, radiating into him-- he-- he feels like he can’t breathe. How long has he been this cold? How many nights has he spent shifting endlessly on a stiff cot, never feeling able to get comfortable, when really he couldn't get warm? 

He shifts, hair fluttering out on his pillow, tickling his cheek, distracting him briefly, briefly before he moves his eyes up onto the face next to him. 

  
  


Martin. 

It’s Martin. 

He’s really there. 

Jon breathes out. A breath he didn’t know he was holding. How out of tune has he been with his body lately? With himself? He looks up at Martin and in the damp glow of the hall light (neither of them had said a word when they’d left it on and clambered into bed), in that hazy golden glow, Martin’s eyes seem to gleam. Gently, gently, a yellow halo of light caresses half his face, the other half is grey and obscured where it presses against the pillow. 

He’s beautiful. Jon doesn’t even try to suppress the thought. Martin is beautiful and Jon is allowing himself to think that. To know it. He looks at Martin, traces his eyes across the gentle curves of his face, the rounded cheeks and soft nose before coming back to those eyes, shining in the light. The eyes blink. They’re looking back. Jon almost startles at the realization, forgetting that, of course, Martin can see him. They’re barely a foot away from each other with the light of the hall spilling into the room and yet-- somehow Jon forgot. He can be seen too. And… he doesn’t mind. Not if it’s Martin. Never if it’s him. Martin may be the only eyes Jon wants to be seen by ever again. 

Without even thinking, Jon reaches out into the grey, across the quilt and presses his fingers softly against the golden curve of Martin’s cheek. It’s so soft-- the soft of well-cleaned skin, but there’s a roughness. Is it stubble? It must be. But most striking is the utter  _ warmth _ . Martin feels exactly like the tea he’d set next to stacks of papers on Jon’s desk, what was it now? Eons ago? It feels like eons. 

Jon drags his fingers along the edges of his jaw, letting the stubble scrape across the pads of his fingers in a way that sends shivers all the way up his arm to his spine. He shudders a breath before reaching Martin’s chin. He can feel the solid of the bone underneath, the stubble prickling his fingers in a gently teasing way. So warm. So soft, so stubbly, so  _ human _ , so--

“Jon.”

Jon almost leaps out of his skin, yanking his hand back to his own chest before wildly glancing back up into the eyes, those, soft, now crinkling eyes. 

“Jon,” a whisper this time, followed by a large hand reaching out and suddenly gently damp warmth on his cheek. Were his palms sweating? Was Martin nervous? A soft thumb strokes across Jon’s cheek, under his eye, the damp-- oh. 

Jon was crying. 

The stubbly chin, a mouth, curved into a thin, warm smile, the round nose, the eyes. Crinkled into something soft-- so soft-- far too soft to be looking at him, at  _ Jon _ . He’d… Jon couldn’t-- he didn’t deserve that. He didn’t deserve that look. It wasn’t made for him. Yet it was looking at him all the same, accompanied by a hand, a big warm hand on his cheek, touching him, holding him, holding  _ Jon _ . Surely it wasn’t made for him. 

“Martin,” Jon croaked, surprised at how hoarse his voice had become. 

“Martin, you’re here.” 

Was all he could manage to say before reaching up and grasping desperately, so desperately onto Martin’s forearms; they’re so strikingly warm and Jon squints his eyes shut, unable to handle the fond gaze on him any longer as his body begins to quiver and shake with sobs. 

He feels electric heat curling through every inch of him as Martin’s hand leaves his face and finds his back, pulling him closer, closer, until Jon’s racking sobs are muffled into a radiator of a chest. Hot breath laces throughout his hair as Martin presses his face into it. Jon can feel a dampness there too. He doubts severely that Martin is drooling. But he doesn’t have much time to think at all as the waves of grief, relief, joy, fear, rage, and…. Oh, god, oh, god, whatever  _ that _ feeling is, peels through his body and empties itself out onto Martin’s shirt. 

He has no idea how much time passes. He supposes it doesn’t matter. He knows it’s over when he can breathe again, even if they’re shuddering, stunted breaths. 

There is silence for a long time. 

Jon clings to Martin’s back, fists pulling desperately at the back of his shirt, holding him there, praying, praying. Praying to who, or  _ what _ , he doesn’t know. But the prayer comes to him all the same.  _ Don’t let him leave me again. Please.  _ Over and over again, that phrase paces tracks in his head. He pulls the warmth, the softness tighter and he feels it pull back-- he feels Martin pull him closer, tighter, so tight, and god, the  _ heat _ radiating off of this man. It feels like sunlight through a window on a bright summer day. Warmer even. Not hot enough to burn-- never that. It feels good, feels right, feels like he belongs here. He never wants to let go. 

Without even thinking, without even needing to--

Jon says, 

“I love you.”

The rising and falling of Martin’s chest stills, like he’s holding his breath. Jon blinks into the grey, into that chest, and what he’s said wafts over him in waves. He pulls back hurriedly, a thousand apologies already dripping on his tongue, it’s too soon, far too soon, Jon pulled him out of the Lonely, good god, hours ago? They’d only paused to grab a few belongings from the Archives before booking it to Martin’s silver sedan-- not even stopping for takeout on the way-- sure, Martin had  _ said _ what he said in the Lonely, but he’d also used  _ past tense _ \-- and certainly, Jon had, “sort of” proposed they run away together forever a few weeks ago so Martin must have an inkling but really, what was Jon thinking?  _ Was  _ he thinking? Oh no, Classic Jon, jump before you--- 

“I’ve loved you since the worms.”

Jon takes a deep breath in and a deep breath out, in time with the rising and falling of his new favorite pillow. 

A beat. Nothing but warmth and the pressing grey softness of Martin’s sleep shirt against his face. And breathing. 

“Jane Prentiss?” Jon asks after a while. 

“Well, yes, yes, sort of. Well, actually, I mean, the  _ worms. _ The, um, the ones I put on your desk after I met her the first time? After I came back from being locked in my apartment for two weeks. Those worms.”

Jon chewed on his words for a moment. 

“Those worms specifically?”

Martin laughs and it bubbles through his chest in a way that radiates outward through Jon. 

“Yes, those worms  _ specifically. _ You know, I went into your office expecting you at best not to believe me, sack me at the worst. I was sure you’d think--think I’d skipped work for holiday or something and didn’t want to use up my leave days. But-- but you didn’t. Not at all, in fact. You, you nearly leapt out of your chair actually, at the sight--”

Jon squirmed in protest but Martin carried on-- 

“-- and you didn’t just believe me. You offered me a safe place to stay. You seemed so concerned. Like--like you were so tough on us that whole time, demanding real answers, thorough backup, I thought for sure you’d be hard on us in every way but-- but the second one of us was in trouble, well… You became a sort of mother hen, didn’t you? All protective and gentle. It was… endearing, I guess, to say the least. As if under all that sharpness, that intensity was someone who really cared. And it hit me, you were probably so sharp exactly because you cared so much. It was… Well, I rather liked that, I suppose.” 

Jon’s fists tightened in the back of Martin’s shirt as he pressed his face ever closer into it. 

“I am  _ not  _ a mother hen,  _ Martin _ .”

A shaking in Martin’s chest told Jon he was laughing. 

“Oh, you were, you absolutely were. You know the archive has a little window in the door, right? I  _ saw _ you peeping in in the mornings to check on me.  _ And _ before you left at nights.”

Jon could feel a tingling heat prickle up his neck across his cheeks. His stomach performed a sort of strange, flipping sensation he was only typically accustomed to feeling when approaching something dangerous. 

“I assumed someone prone in the dark would be asleep, Martin.”

Another rumbling laugh. 

“Not always. And I saw you. Nearly leapt out of my skin the first time. Didn’t have my glasses on and I saw a shadowy figure outside the door. I was sure you were her at first. Then of course, you walked off and I realized Jane Prentiss has long hair, plus I don’t think  _ she _ would’ve left off. But you did. And… I noticed you in the mornings a few times when I’d woken up early. It was… sweet. A little creepy, sure, but... It made me feel cared for.”

“You are cared for, Martin.”

“Apparently so.”

Martin pulls him tighter and Jon clings, clings to the only thing that’s made him feel safe in a long time. As sleep begins to claim him, drag him down beneath consciousness, he barely has time to register that his feet are warm. 

**Author's Note:**

> Actually do @ me if you have any edit suggestions. I don't have an editor. Anyways, I'm not going to be able to deal with the finale of TMA so. Fics.
> 
> Inspired by the fact that my feet are also always cold and I can't imagine a tiny man like Jon who only eats fear not being anemic so. Cold feet.


End file.
